


Procedures

by obicifical



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Empurata, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:04:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obicifical/pseuds/obicifical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift struggles to comfort Ratchet after the medic undergoes empurata.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Procedures

**Author's Note:**

> Crossposted from my tumblr (http://oobii.tumblr.com). Inspired by a picture alfheimer drew of Empurata Ratchet (http://alfheimr.tumblr.com/post/82330191685/my-friend-paid-me-in-coffee-to-draw-empurata). Boy howdy if this ain't some angsty shit, but I love these two.

"Ratchet," Drift says softly, tapping on the doorframe of the medbay's entrance. "I know you're in here. I can feel your dark thoughts all the way out in the hall."

No response. The medbay's lights were darkened, it being somewhere in the wee hours of the morning. Drift knows Ratchet well enough now that there was no way the older bot would be in recharge. The swordsmech strides into the main space, keeping his pedfalls light. There's a little slit of light peeking out from under the closed door to Ratchet's office.

Rodimus had thought him nigh on suicidal to try and get through to Ratchet; the medic's recent injuries left him with a temper unusually sharp even for him. Drift, however, hasn't ever been scared of Ratchet. It's obvious to him how compassionate the bot's core is.

He taps on the buzzer and settles his weight on one ped, tempering his field to a neutral flow. Ratchet hates to be patronized.

"Go away." The medic's voice is dark, edged with threats. Drift sighs softly.

"I'm not going away, Ratchet. I just want to talk to you."

"Oh, really?" There's a thump-thump of heavy peds on the other side of the door, the feeling of a field twisting with internal torment. Drift steadies himself with a small smile, and the doors slide apart.

He hasn't seen Ratchet since 'The Incident'; his tanks flip a little as he looks at the medic, expecting a face and instead being met with one optic set in black. Drift doesn't flinch, which seems to anger Ratchet even more; his optic narrows. "You're not the first gawker, Drift. Am I shocking enough for you? Gonna take a picture and let the whole ship see what I look like now?"

Drift raises a single optic ridge, allowing Ratchet's words to hang in the air for a klik. The medic exvents sharply and turns on his heel when Drift won't rise to the bait, sitting down at his desk with his back to the swordsmech. Drift notes the similarities between Ratchet's current helm and the one he had before.

"How are you feeling?" There's a short, worn couch next to the desk which Ratchet sometimes uses between operations as a berth. Drift settles on it, taking off his sheathed sword and propping it against the couch. The older mech clicks his new claws, staring down at the datapad-occupied desk without expression. Drift's just far away enough that he can't quite read Ratchet's field.

"How do you _think?_ " Ratchet looks over at him, shoving some of the datapads aside. His plating tightens as some of them clatter onto the floor; he stares down at them, and Drift realizes he can't pick them up with his new claws.

"I'm out of a job now," Ratchet mutters, kicking at one datapad lightly. Drift leans forward and picks them up, putting them into a little stack next to the foot of the desk.

"There's no reason you can't find a pair of hands to replace your claws," the swordsmech says finally. Ratchet scoffs.

"They're not going to be like my original hands." Drift is unsure whether he's talking about his own or the ones Drift took from Pharma, but he stays silent. "Besides, you can't replace depth of field with this helm. I'm the only one on ship who could perform that operation, and-"

He stops and slumps a little. Drift purses his lips, struggling to find something to say. The only responses he can think of are all the ones that would anger Ratchet the most. Somehow, he doesn't think Ratchet would want to hear that this is Primus' plan for him.

The ex-Decepticon gets up and goes over to him, leaning against the desk slightly. There's a confused moment where he reaches for Ratchet's helm and the newly modified bot leans back, unsure, but Drift wraps him up in a field filled with the desire to comfort, overflowing with compassion that will never hope to approach Ratchet's own. The medic allows him to touch him, tapered fingers brushing across Ratchet's chevron halves. There was a running joke for a time that Ratchet could probably overload from having his chevron touched, but that's not quite accurate- Drift's found that it's more comforting than arousing.

Ratchet thrives on touch, but he so rarely allows himself to be the focus of it. It's a shame. He needs it, especially now.

Drift kneels down, making himself a little smaller, a little more on the medic's level, and Ratchet just barely follows him. Vermillion-red claws are tucked in his lap and Drift takes ahold of them, shushing Ratchet when he reflexitively pulls away out of shame. He traces the inside curve,  the surface rough where the blade-like edge was professionally dulled to a less lethal edge.

Ratchet lacks expression in his faceplates, but his field is a jumble of different emotions, anguish at the forefront. The older bot lets out a soft noise and Drift grips his pincers just as he would if they'd been hands.

Stubborn, stubborn old mech.

"You're strong," Drift says finally, finding the right words slowly. "You're going to survive this like you've survived everything else. You didn't recover from plague just to give up now, did you?"

Ratchet says nothing, pincers curving in slightly. His attention is focusing more on Drift, which is good. Ratchet is a wonderful bot but he indulges in pity parties too much (Drift's one to talk).

"We can fix this, if you'll let us. This isn't the end of the world." He lets go of one of Ratchet's claws to reach up and touch the edge of his helm, his chin if there had been a mouth above it. Ratchet's field shifts and Drift gets the feeling he's frowning at him right now. The idea is oddly funny, but Drift doesn't laugh.

Ratchet leans down and taps his chin against Drift's forehelm, giving in begrudgingly, and Drift kisses the divot above his chestplating, feeling the pulse of his spark deep within his chassis.

Things are going to be all right.


End file.
